


To Eat and Still Hunger

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death Fix, Food, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>For a moment, Javert thinks he will bite the bread right out of his hand, like an animal would, and the thought buries itself curiously within him, makes him more aware of the heat of the bread in his hand and the way Valjean’s cravat rests at his neck.</i> UST and food porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Eat and Still Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> You may also want to read [this,](http://stonecarapace.tumblr.com/post/50892903585/carmarthen-the-fan-replied-to-your-post) which is in the same 'verse.

If it is possible for a man without dignity to be self-conscious, well—then Javert is self-conscious. His apartment is small, Spartan, a dingy and loveless place, and it seems that Valjean should have no place there, Valjean who can fill a whole street with light. So Javert, self-conscious or something like it, stands at the threshold of his apartment and keeps one hand on his door as he studies Valjean. 

“What do you want?” he asks, callous without meaning to be. 

Valjean shifts and ducks his head a moment. “I thought we could eat together, and talk, since it’s been some time since I saw you last. May I come in?”

Either Javert owes Valjean nothing or everything—and either way, it would do them both a disservice for him to be discourteous now. He stands aside, carefully not watching Valjean as the man takes his first steps into Javert’s apartment. He has no interest in knowing whether he has lowered once more in Valjean’s esteem.

There is a basket on Valjean’s arm, and he sets it down on the bare table. “How have you been?” he asks without looking up, carefully beginning to unpack his basket.

“Fine.” Javert goes to open his window—at least a breeze and some sunlight will make the apartment seem less dreary. “And yourself?” 

“Fine,” Valjean echoes, and it is only then that Javert realizes how transparent the lie has been from both of them. He is troubled to know that Valjean has not been well, and hopes it mostly has to do with his daughter and the wounded boy. “Only, it’s been some time since I saw you, and…well, you know that. I hope this will suffice.” 

Javert takes a stack of books and papers off a hard-backed chair and deposits them unceremoniously on his bed; he then offers the chair wordlessly to Valjean. The spread Valjean has brought is more than he would have anticipated, given the size of the basket—there is a loaf of bread with steam still coiling off it, cold cuts, cheese, grapes, and a covered clay bowl that likely has some sort of stew or soup. His stomach turns at the sight. 

“Valjean,” he says, “that is too much.”

Valjean does not lift his head, carefully picking out slices of meat and cheese and piling the lot of it on a plate. “Have you been eating?” he asks, delicately, and without tact.

Javert sits. “It’s been nearly two weeks,” he says. “What do you think?”

“I think you look thinner,” he says. He hands the full plate to Javert. 

Javert sets it down and folds his arms across his chest; he is still conditioned to accept any food that comes to him, but in this instance he would rather wait a while. Valjean begins to fill his own plate, picking the thinnest slices of meat he can and the saddest blocks of cheese; when he braves the loaf of bread, he takes only the very edge of the crust and nothing more. He does not touch the clay bowl. Once he has satisfied himself with his plate, he sits back in his chair and looks across the table.

“Come, what’s the matter?”

Javert raises his eyebrows. “Is that all?”

“No,” Valjean says, a touch defensive. “I’ve been worried, though I’m sure you think I’m a fool for it—I thought you might—”

“I mean, is that all you are going to eat? Out of all this food?”

Valjean hesitates. “There will be enough for seconds,” he says.

Javert sighs and tears a sizable hunk off the load of bread, then, ignoring how sweet the warmth is in his palm, holds the piece out to Valjean. “I refuse to be your little project,” he says. “Eat your own share or do not bring me anything at all.” 

It seems that Valjean will not budge on this—his face closes in something like anger, then relaxes without losing his guard. He leans forward, and for a moment, Javert thinks he will bite the bread right out of his hand, like an animal would, and the thought buries itself curiously within him, makes him more aware of the heat of the bread in his hand and the way Valjean’s cravat rests at his neck. But Valjean takes it with his hand, gently, as if he plucks a flower, and he brings the bread to his nose to breathe in the scent of it—and Javert tenses, and does not know why—and Valjean takes a bite.

“You are not a project,” he says, once he has swallowed.

Javert turns to his own plate without a word.

*

Later, when some of their pretenses have dropped and others have been built between them, Javert is in Valjean’s kitchen, trying to replicate a stew that he had almost thirty years ago and had not thought about until a week before. It has been dismal, so far, but it’s at least given him something to do for an afternoon, and given Valjean an excuse to wander through the kitchen and touch Javert’s arms and back in encouragement. 

“This is close,” Javert says, when Valjean meanders back in for perhaps the tenth time. “Perhaps.”

Valjean slides next to him. One hand brushes between Javert’s shoulder blades, then slips away, just a sleight of hand, almost an illusion. Javert ignores this, pointedly, though something twists in his chest. “May I try?” he asks.

With a nod, Javert gathers a spoonful, careful to include a bit of the chicken, and holds it out to Valjean, expecting that he will take the spoon from Javert.

Instead, he dips his head down to meet the spoon—he gently takes it in his mouth, his lips closing tentatively around it, perhaps wary of being burned. He slides his lips along the curve of the spoon, taking what he can, then straightens up. “It’s very good,” he says. He glances into Javert’s face—and whatever he sees there makes him blanch, then flush and turn away. “I’ll let you work,” he says. “Let me know if you need any help.” 

Perhaps there is something Javert could say—but if there is, he does not find it until Valjean has left the room.

*

“Here,” Javert says, “I won’t finish it.” He has never had much of an appetite in the morning, and today that is diminished by the headache he’s nursed for the past day and a half. It has always been of some convenience that his stress has always left him less hungry than usual, but these days it is irritating, when Valjean’s own appetite seems to mirror his, as if he does not deserve to eat if Javert isn’t. It is rather annoying, and he doesn’t often see Cosette and so can’t commiserate as often as he’d like. 

Valjean hesitates, looking at the chunk of bread in Javert’s hand. “Are you still unwell?” he asks.

“It will pass.” Javert shakes the bread. “Come, then, take it.” 

“You need to keep up your strength,” he says.

“Don’t make me shove it down your throat. I’d rather avoid the mess.”

Valjean’s brows knit, not quite agitated. It smooths away as quickly as it appeared, as if he always lives conscious of his anger. Javert wonders how exhausting that must be. He studies Javert, thoughtful, then stands and moves around the table. 

He kneels down next to Javert.

The pounding in Javert’s head increases, worsened by the rush of heat that roars through him, and he tries to find a reason for this, anything other than what it looks like, because God help him if Valjean wants to—do _that_ —and God, he’s spent so long avoiding that side of him that he’s afraid of what he’ll do if Valjean lets him act on the horrible things inside of him, but if Valjean wishes for it, too, then perhaps it’s not so horrible to want, and—

Valjean takes his wrist and brings his hand to his mouth. There is a flush creeping along his cheeks, and his ears are pink, but he does not pause, taking a slow bite out of the bread, and then another, and another, chewing each bite methodically and thoroughly so that between each bite Javert can only stew in agony and desire and the incredible pain in his temples. He takes the last bite from Javert’s fingers, his tongue and lips brushing at them, and at that wet touch Javert can no longer pretend he is not hard, his cock straining against his trousers.

Valjean kisses the crumbs from his palms, then stands. “Thank you,” he says, and returns to his side of the table. 

“Whose body did you just take?” Javert asks, and only after saying it realizes how stupid he must sound. He can’t help it. His pulse is pounding between his legs and the cloth of his trousers is chafing him, and he has never wanted anything so badly as he wants Valjean back on this side of the table. 

Valjean blinks at him. “Sorry?”

“Jesus,” he says, without elaborating. He’s not sure himself if it is a curse or an explanation. “I’m going to be late,” he says.

Valjean ducks his head. “Have a good day.”

He snorts his reply and hurries out, praying he is not as foolish as he thinks. 

*

Javert is still not as skilled at cooking as he should like, but he’s improving, and there is some artfulness to his dishes that was not there just a year ago. He even finds himself pleased with himself, occasionally, and doubly so when Valjean is pleased with him as well. 

He has spent the afternoon on a pie, decadent by both his and Valjean’s standards but well worth it when he takes it from the oven and sees that the crust has browned to perfection. It’s apple, and he would prefer something else, but the apples were the cheapest option and even in his extravagance he couldn’t bring himself to spend too much. This blow was softened by Valjean informing him that he loved apples—and that he has not had apple pie in many years. 

Javert sticks his head in the sitting room, where Valjean is reading, or pretending to, and says, “It’s cooling.” 

Valjean nods and shuts his book. They retire to the kitchen together, Valjean resting against the edge of the table, Javert hovering over the cooling pie. 

“Are you hungry?” Javert asks, because the silence finds its way under his clothes too quickly.

“I am.” He pauses; when Javert glances at him, he can see that his knuckles are white against the table. “It smells delicious, Javert. You’ve outdone yourself. Truly.”

“Well—reserve your judgment until you have had some,” he says. To keep himself busy, Javert goes to fetch two plates and forks; then, because the pie still needs to cool for a few minutes, he checks to see if there is any milk left. There isn’t, which gives him an excuse to fetch water for them; once that has been done, and two glasses filled, he checks the pie and finds it cool enough to cut.

Valjean has not left his post at the table, though Javert is sure it drives him mad to see someone working for him. When Javert begins to cut the pie into neat slices, Valjean pulls out a chair—adjusts it until he is satisfied with its angle—and then resumes leaning against the table. Anticipation makes Javert’s hand tremble. He steadies it as well as he can. 

“Hand me a plate, please,” he says. 

Valjean complies, letting his fingers brush at Javert’s as he passes it to him. Javert can feel him watching as he sets a slice of pie on it, and for a moment both of them watch as the apple filling oozes across the plate. 

Javert glances up—and tries not to look too closely at Valjean as he crosses to the table, knowing that Valjean is just as affected as Javert is, not wanting to know it. He sits in the chair and rests the plate on his thigh, where it warms his leg and he might pretend that is only reason that he is burning under his layers. 

Valjean kneels down in front of him, his hands chaste on his knees. 

“I won’t have my piece until you finish this,” he informs Valjean, too strained to be curt. When Valjean does not respond except to lower his head, Javert clears his throat. “Do you understand? This is yours.”

He nods, finally, then lifts his head to gaze into Javert’s face. 

It is not a matter of dignity. It is at its most shallow layer a forceful way to chastise Valjean into letting himself enjoy some small luxury. Javert tries not to think about his motives otherwise, though he is all-too aware of how taut his trousers are, and how he must look to Valjean if the heat at his throat is visible. 

He gathers a small bite of the pie on the fork, just enough that Valjean can taste it. It is uncomfortably close to a tease, he knows, but still he holds the piece out to Valjean and watches as Valjean’s eyes flicker shut, as his throat bobs, as he takes it on his tongue and savors the taste. His lips slide off the tines of the fork; his jaw works. He swallows. 

Javert waits until Valjean has opened his eyes again to take the next forkful—and Valjean does not break eye-contact as Javert balances the thick apple filling and soft crust on the fork, nor as he holds the fork out to him. He takes the next bite with a calmness that borders on bliss. He moans, very softly, as he slides his lips along the tines of the fork. 

“It’s very good,” he says around the mouthful. “Thank you.” 

He at least has the grace to not look between Javert’s legs, though it must be more and more difficult to ignore the shape of Javert’s cock when it is so close to his face. He takes each bite with a sort of reverence, chewing thoroughly each time, swallowing with a small noise. His hands remain on his knees, though in time they tighten into loose fists, then become taut, white-knuckled. Even when a bit of filling sticks to the corner of his mouth and chin, he keeps his hands where they are, so that Javert has to set down his fork and gently thumb away the filling.

Before Javert can remove his thumb, Valjean turns his head to suck it away, tentatively curving his lips around his thumb, tasting it away as gently as he has for each bite. He ignores the soft noise Javert makes—when he is finished with his thumb, he straightens and waits for the next bite.

Javert’s hand shakes as he guides the fork back to Valjean’s mouth.

It is not long before there is only the crust left; Javert feeds him this, too, holding it between his fingers and letting Valjean nibble it away. With the last bite, Valjean kisses the tips of his fingers once more, tasting away whatever traces he might find there—and then, as if that final act has broken some spell, Valjean stands and backs away. 

“Thank you,” he says again. “I—thank you.” 

The curve of Valjean’s prick is visible through his pants. It seems ridiculous that they should both share this thing within them and never address it, but Javert will not break through that web. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, instead of what he would like to. “There’s more, if you want it.” 

Valjean is already slipping away. “Later,” he says.

He passes a hand over his mouth, but the damage has already been done.


End file.
